


Parisian Winter

by Barefoot_Dancer



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn, drunken carolling at 2am, tell me this doesn't describe them perfectly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8697331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barefoot_Dancer/pseuds/Barefoot_Dancer
Summary: Ever since forever ago, it has been a cycle the two have repeated - fight, refuse to speak to each other, fight some more, apologize halfheartedly, stumble back together, and repeat. Mostly, they hate each other, but maybe winter in Paris will change that. (Also known as the time England showed up at France's doorstep and somehow never left.)





	1. Little Sparrow

**Author's Note:**

> (Ok so this is for a "stop your drunk caroling outside my window it's 2 am" au that I saw. I immediately thought of FrUk)

Francis turned over in bed. The linen pillowcase was soft against his cheek, growing stubble prickling at the cloth. It was late at night, and a haze of sleep-induced stupor clung about him. Through his sleepy daze, annoyance tickled at him feebly.  Just barely there, it dimly registered in his sleep-induced stupor. Francis desperately tried to tune it out, to re-immerse himself in the lovely dream he had been having. What was it again? He could have sworn there were rabbit ears involved…

Whatever the noise was, it was becoming progressively louder, tugging him back awake.  He groaned and stretched, rubbing sleep from his eyes.  Francis peered sleepily at his bedside clock. He groaned, flopping onto his back once more.  Two in the morning.  What could possibly be going on this time of night? Francis blinked, trying to clear his vision, and registered that the muted sound was coming from out below his fire escape. Propping himself up and struggling to muster the will to climb out of bed, Francis yawned once more before throwing his coverlet off and stumbling to the window.  He yanked back the curtains and threw open the shutters. A gust of Parisienne air blew in through the open casement, billowing the wine-colored drapes inward. The midnight breeze smelled of the city, and of snow.

But Francis barely had time to enjoy the wintry night air before he was met with the culpable noise full-force . It sounded an awful lot like drunken singing. He made a disgusted grunt in the back of his throat and leaned out his window to give the caroler a sound telling-off, but was shocked by what he saw.

"- which made the angels sing this night. Glory to god and peace to men..."

The noisy street goer was none other than Arthur Kirkland. Francis rolled his eyes. Typical of Arthur to be roaming about late at night, beer bottle in hand, ready to interrupt Francis’ life over and over with his irrational temper and dismal singing and hideous fashion sense.  Ever since forever ago, it has been a cycle the two have repeated - stumble back together, fight, refuse to speak to each other, fight some more, apologize halfheartedly, and repeat.  But the reason escaped him as to why the other nation couldn't get drunk and carol in his own country instead of intruding upon others'. Especially when they're dreaming about lovely blonde -

"Oi!"

The inebriated shout came from the gutter. It looked as if Arthur had fallen into a pile of snow and was struggling to right himself, the damp soaking into his rumpled dress shirt. "I heard the bells on Christmas Day, their old fami... Fa... Famil..." His cries trailed off as he swayed on his feet, booze sloshing in hand.

France raised an eyebrow. "Angleterre, I think you've had quite enough to drink tonight. Don't you think you ought to put the bottle down?" The other nation ignored him, so he tried again.

"Arthur, stop it right now. I'm trying to sleep. It's two in the morning and your singing is enough to make the dogs howl!"

"Stupid wine bastard, I’m gonna sing all I wanna 'n you can't stop me." He laughed hoarsely and took another drink.  At this point, England proceeded to launch into a loud and off-key rendition of Silent Night. "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright..."

At this, Francis winced. England was not known for his glorious singing voice when he was sober, and when he wasn’t, it was twice as worse. He had absolutely no desire to listen to this god-awful racket anymore, but the state Arthur was in was beginning to worry him. He didn't trust the other nation to, in his current state, make it back to his hotel room without picking a fight with every second fire hydrant he saw along the Champs-Élysées.

Francis really had no other choice. "Angleterre, stop that wailing and come inside. You're bothering the neighbors." With that he withdrew from the window and sighed. What other choice did he have? Arthur wasn't doing this to be malicious; Francis reckoned he might as well bring him inside before the other nation embarrassed himself any more.  He withdrew from the window and trudged down the stairs, wondering exactly why these sort of things always happened to him.

_ Rosbif, you are so different from how you used to be. _

Reluctantly Francis threw back the deadbolt and opened the door. He was greeted by a tipsy Arthur, swaying on his feet, and swinging his beer bottle in time to a rendition of what may have passed for jingle bells. Arthur made as if to pass through the doorway, but tripped over the sill, spilling clumsily into the hallway and colliding with an agitated France.  The inebriated nation tipped forward unsteadily, trapping the other man beneath him on the way down.  He tried in vain to right Arthur, but a soused and soggy Englishman proved too much for him in his sleep-deprived state.

In slow motion, the two slid down the foyer wall, France trying to keep them vertical, one hand grabbing desperately at the banister.  The pair ended up in a heap at the foot of the stairs, Arthur sprawled unhelpfully across Francis’ chest.   _ This is not usually why my guests and I are collapsed in the entryway _ , Francis thought dimly to himself, struggling out from underneath the limp Englishman.

“Arthur.  Arthur!   _ Merde!   _ Get off of me!”  France extricated an arm and with great difficulty, rolled the other nation off of him.  Arthur’s head lolled slackly, and he mumbled something unintelligible, empty beer bottle rolling across the floor.  Francis looked at it with distaste before picking himself up off to floor and hunching over to snag the bottle.  Pinching it between thumb and forefinger like it might come alive and bite him, he trudged toward the kitchen to dispose of it.  “I don’t get paid nearly enough to warrant this,” he muttered before heaving the glass into the recycling bin.

He made his way back through the hall to Arthur, and found the man flopped on his back, staring at the ceiling.  The Frenchman sighed in exasperation and bent down to sling the other man’s arm over his shoulder.  Arthur was damp, the snow melt soaking through into Francis’ pajama shirt.  Towing his unresponsive guest over ceramic-tiled floor, he briefly wondered if Arthur was in any discomfort.

Francis deposited his cargo onto the sofa and left, returning presently with a towel.  Settling onto the ottoman, he undid England’s tie and slid out from under his collar.  It made a hissing noise as it came free.  Arthur’s head drooped forward with the motion, and the water beaded on his hair dripped freely down his face and into his collar.  A little pooled in the hollow of his throat.

France coughed roughly and set to towelling England’s hair, the blond locks silky despite the damp.  “Angleterre,” he said in amusement, “this reminds me of when we were young.”  He smiled.  “I used to take care of you.  Before Rome came.  And after he did, too.  I was practically your older brother.  Big Brother France - I like the sound of that.”  

“Sod. . . Off . . .” The tired mumble came from Arthur, who titled his head up, emerald eyes meeting France’s, lucid for the moment. “Not. . . Brothers. . .” he said, eyes intense with a certain desperate fire.

He paused in  his towelling.  “No.  We’re not.” Francis agreed sadly, his eyes shadowed.  He stood abruptly, leaving Arthur alone on the couch with the towel wrapped around his hair.

Francis ascended the stairs to his bedroom and opened his bedroom door melancholically.  Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he took in the dark circles under his eyes, his scraggly stubble, and his lank blond hair.  “what happened to us, Arthur?” he said tiredly.  “Where’d that little boy I took care of go?  When did everything fall apart?  When did it become easier to pretend we hated each other?” 

_ When did I realize I didn’t hate you? _

He grabbed a second set of pajamas from his chifferobe, spared one last glance in the mirror, and flicked the lights off, heading back down the stairs.  

The wood floorboards squeaked underfoot as he rounded the corner, and Arthur looked up blearily from his reclining position on the couch as he entered the living room.  It was just like Arthur, to go from a loud drunk to a mopey one in a matter of minutes.  The Frenchman held the pajama set aloft in lieu of explanation.  “You need to change,” he said matter-of-factly, “You’re dripping on my sofa.”  _ And you look freezing in that damn shirt. _  But of course, he didn’t say the latter part aloud.  

Francis sat beside Arthur on the sofa, cushions dipping under his weight.  Gently, as if undressing a child, he undid the buttons of Arthur’s shirt one by one.   _ He really is remarkably pale, _ he thought to himself.  The decision to get Arthur out of his wet clothing proved to be a good one - the island nation’s skin was cool and clammy to the touch. He slid the damp dress shirt off England’s narrow shoulders, and swallowed hard at the sight of the other man’s exposed collar bones.   _ What a delicate boy…  _ “Like a little sparrow.”

Arthur gave him a puzzled glance - towel still wrapped around his head- and with a start, France realized he’d said the last bit out loud.  To compensate for the pregnant silence, he grabbed the night shirt and with one smooth motion, popped it down over England’s head.  The towel slipped partially off, and Francis unwound it, pulling the cloth out the neck of the shirt.  Arthur’s hair fluffed up like the feathers of a baby chicken, and he looked up at Francis with baleful eyes, sitting on the couch in a night shirt that proved much too big for him.  He looked far too much like his little brother from so long ago, but France put the thought out of his mind.   _ He’s not my petit chou anymore.  How did he grow up when I wasn’t looking? _

It was a fight getting Arthur out of his pants, but they soon joined his shoes and tie on the floor.  The Englishman refused the pajama bottoms, and they were refolded and left on the arm of the couch.  The sodden dress shirt was draped over the back of a kitchen chair, and the two began the slow process up the stairs.  

France half-carried England up the stairs, the other nation’s arm slung once more over his shoulder.  At the landing, Francis paused and turned to regard the drowsy head propped on his shoulder.  “I’m afraid I cannot offer you the spare bedroom,” he said suddenly.  “I was renovating, and it’s covered in crap at the moment.  If you don’t mind, you can share mine; it beats the couch.”

The Englishman hummed in response.  “S’fine.”

The landing was breasted, and Arthur steered toward Francis’s bedroom.  Drunken stupor was fading into drowsiness, and his toes caught more than once upon the wooden floorboards of the hall.  It seemed as if they would make it into the bedroom without mishap, but England stumbled at the doorway, France lunging to catch him.  

Still not entirely sober, Arthur said, “Well, if it isn’t St. George coming to the princess’ rescue.  An toir thu dhomh pòg, my hero?”

France’s breath hitched, but he covered it with a roll of his eyes - it was just like Arthur to revert to Gaelic when drunk - and muttered,  “No I will not give you a kiss.  But I’ll slap you if you wake me up at 2am again.” He gave a dry laugh.  “In any case, I’m not desperate enough to take advantage of a drunkard.  It’s nice you think I’m a knight in shining armor, though.”

The pair shuffled into Francis’ room without further conversation, climbing under the covers in a state of mind-numbing exhaustion.  Francis regarded the moon through his window, it’s waxing crescent visible over the steep Parisienne rooftops.  Beside him, Arthur dropped off to sleep almost instantaneously, mumbling in Gaelic something barely intelligible to France.

_ “Tha gaol agam ort.” _

 

Francis froze, staring at his blonde bedmate in shock, but the Englishman was fast asleep.  His chest twisted painfully before saying, “Yes. . . It is better we are not brothers,” barely audible over the sound of Arthur’s breathing.  France stared at the ceiling.  “Brother’s don’t feel like this.”

 

He gathered Arthur into his arms, tucking the other nation’s head under his chin. “You know, since we were children, I haven’t forgotten your language, not ever.  Dè tha thu ag iarraidh, Arthur.” He murmured into England’s hair.   _ I love you too, mon petit chou.  _ “Good night.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur awoke the next morning to the sun streaming through the window.  He briefly wondered where he was before flushing, remembering what transpired in the night. He sat up, feeling in the bed for France, finding only a spot of cooling warmth and wrinkled sheets to indicate someone other than himself had slept there the previous night.  England swung his legs over the side of the bed and he winced at the cold of the wood floor on his feet.  He padded out into the hall, the stairs creaking only minimally as he descended.  From the kitchen, the sounds of running water and the oven could be heard.  

Hardwood changed to tiling as he slid into the kitchen, taking in the sight of Francis, dressed and hair pulled back - a few strands falling loose as he bent over the sink - wearing an apron.  Too tired - and a little hungover - to engage in conversation, the Englishman grunted.  France cast a glance over his shoulder, and his eyes widened at the sight of Arthur standing in the entrance of the kitchen with his shirt slipping down over one shoulder, hair mussed in the back, eyes bleary with sleep.  The Frenchman turned around fully, smiling a smile not altogether innocent, before inquiring, “How did you sleep,  _ rosbif _ ?”  

England dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, irritated enough to dispense with anything but Gaelic.  “Bu toigh leam bracaist a ghabhail?”

“The bathroom is just past the pantry,  _ mon petit lapin, _ ” France replied, gesturing down the hallway branching off the kitchen.  Arthur nodded once and headed down the hallway, grumbling and a little flustered at how delicious the Frenchman looked in an apron - that last revelation was particularly shocking.  Francis smiled at his retreating back, eyes taking in his bare legs 

 

* * *

 

When the two sit down to a breakfast of pastry and jam, fresh oranges on the side, with coffee for Francis and tea for Arthur, neither mentions the conversation from late last night.  But it’s there, unspoken, sitting next to the pitcher of cream.  

Francis clears the plates away, and he brushes Arthur’s hand as he takes his teacup from him.  Arthur looks startled, but says nothing, opting for a taciturn - if slightly smug - silence.  And he only pretends to complain when France kisses the top of his head as he leaves for the kitchen sink.

 

No, they don’t mention it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, and later that afternoon, Arthur accompanies Francis to the market in search of ingredients for dinner.  

 


	2. To Market, to Market

****

Winter in Paris is cold, and when Francis looked up at the pale grey sky, he knew snow was coming.  He and Arthur were bundled up, himself in a double-breasted wool jacket and England in an old anorak.  Arthur wore a plaid scarf, and the rolls of fabric obscured his mouth.  “I thought we could go to the farmer’s market to find some vegetables for dinner,”  Francis said offhandedly, and heard fabric slither as the Englishman nodded in agreement.  They started toward to market, and neither said much. ****  
  


The market was colorful despite the December chill and Francis saw Arthur’s thinly disguised interest plainly.  “Have you never been to a farmer’s market before,  _ rosbif _ ?” Inquired France in amusement.  

“Yes, I have.”  England said this without his usual bite.  “But I’ve never been to one of yours.”  He stopped and rubbed his neck in embarrassment.  “I guess I’ve always been too busy.  We were at war with each other for so long, and then we were fighting Germany, and during the second world war nobody really had the time to sightsee.”  He stopped, feeling he had said too much.

“I know what you mean,” Francis said softly.  “We’ve all been so busy fighting, we’ve forgotten the simple things like market day and milk that comes in glass bottles with cream thick at the top, and itchy wool sweaters.”  He snuck a glance at Arthur, expecting to see the usual derisive leer, but instead the Englishman nodded contemplatively.  In that moment, the young man standing beside France looked weathered in the gray winter light.  Francis briefly wondered if Arthur felt as old on the inside as he did.

Silence fell again, and the pair walked in quiet company, browsing the produce selections set out by the vendors.

 

He had no idea how, but one moment he and Arthur were perusing the leeks and the next, the sandy-haired Englishman had vanished.  Where the other man had been standing, only a basket of delicata squash remained.  France craned his neck in search of his cantankerous guest, but he was nowhere to be seen.  Hats and coats and mittens and their corresponding owners clogged the walkways, but there was no sign of Arthur.  Francis had lost him.

Francis was panicked.  The once-happy colors spun and muddied slightly as he turned this way and that.  The crowd was now too loud, too colorful, too bright.

He couldn’t imagine what his boss would say when he found out the amorous nation had managed to lose his guest at an open-air market.  And mostly (though he’d never admit this to his face), he worried for England’s safety.  Admittedly, the last time the other nation used his French was during the second world war, and even then it was rusty.  He rounded the corner around the market stall with a  _ watch this for me, please  _ to the shop owner as he dropped his market basket by a barrel of fingerling potatoes.  He broke into a light run down the corridor.  Francis could see other vendors waving to him, but he ignored the colorful booths in favor of Arthur.  All he could think of was a small blonde boy lost in the woods, calling out, “Francis, where are you?” England was nowhere to be seen, and France was beginning to worry, eyes frantically scanning the faces of the other market goers, looking for tell-tale eyebrows and hair.  At this point, he’d made a circuitous loop through the majority of the stalls, and no sign of him.

 

France’s heart pounded.  _ Be calm,  _ the nation thought to himself.   _ England’s a big boy, he can find his way home if he ne- _

there was a tug at the back of his jacket, and he whirled to see Arthur holding both market baskets, hair sticking up characteristically like unruly straw.  “Where did you go? And why did you leave your basket?” A momentary pause and then, “Are you breathing hard?”

Francis took a deep breath and said evenly “It’s nothing,  _ mon petit lapin _ .  I just didn’t see you is all.”

Arthur blinked. “I went to go look at some brussel sprouts.  When I came back, you weren’t there.”  Wordlessly, he holds Francis’s basket out to him.

“My apologize, love.”  The Frenchman gives a smile and heaves an internal sigh.   _ It’s all right.  He’s right here.   _ The colors weren’t threatening anymore.

 

* * *

Produce collected and partners located, the pair make their way home.  Francis hears England shift his market basket to his other hand and gives a small start when he feels cool fingers knot in his own.  he doesn’t say anything, but he tugs the Englishman closer and tucks their joined hands inside the pocket of his pea coat.  Arthur turns his chin farther down into his scarf until all France can see is his nose, but the Frenchman can tell that he is smiling.

“You thought I was lost, didn’t you?” 

France looks at Arthur sadly.  “I didn’t see you, and I was worried.”

“I can look after myself,”  England says with a bit of his old temerity.

“I know,  _ mon ami. _ But I was a little scared without you.”

“I was right around the corner, you know?”

“It’s the principle of the matter.  Losing you was terrifying; everything was too bright.”

England hummed softly and nodded once.  They don’t say anything after that, and the walk home is cold enough their breath spools into the air in curls.  Francis gives Arthur’s hand one more squeeze, and the other man squeezed back just as tightly.  Sometimes, words weren’t necessary for the pair.  

Francis’ home appeared around the corner, a small town house from before the second world war.  It was a tasteful cadet blue, and lay between two similar establishments.  The whole street had a quaint feel, and it might've be the old cobble pavers, or the family of finches in the eaves, or the washing someone had hung out their dormer window.  

The door creaked as Francis turned the key in the lock.  Arthur thought suddenly that there was something very sexy about the way the other man held his keys in his mouth while shouldering the door open with an armload of groceries.  The thought was so domestic, it surprised the Englishman, who ducked inside after France.  

Arthur remembered the entryway a little differently from before, but didn’t say anything when he realized this was most like due to his deplorable state of inebriation the night previous.  He and Francis shrugged out of their jackets and hung them on the brass peg near the door.

Trailing after the Frenchman into the kitchen, Arthur took the time to examine the house; he’d been otherwise occupied last night.  If sparely decorated, it was tasteful, and the furniture was good quality being worn.  There were paintings on the walls - of the Riviera, off people, of Paris - and Arthur supposed France had painted them himself.

Francis began to prepare dinner and despite his protests, England insisted on helping.

“I’m a guest in your house,” he mumbled, “It would be rude of me otherwise.”  He looked down at the floor.

France gave a sigh, saying “Suit yourself,” and then, with a cavalier toss of his hand, “don’t set anything on fire.”

The pair began with a loaf of crusty bread and it turned out well enough, but only because France caught the other man before he used tablespoons of salt instead of teaspoons, and it was mildly discounted by the fact that Arthur spilled flour  _ all over _ .  The last bit was mostly the Frenchman’s fault - he tried to cop a feel, which was poorly received.  A click of the tongue and a shake of the head from England dismiss it as unimportant, and Francis shoots him a rakish grin.  He is met with an eye roll.

Next attempted was  _ filet de porc sauce Normande _ , and Francis insisted on doing the meat himself.  Arthur was left at the stove with strict instructions ‘not to burn anything,’ a command he promptly disobeyed.  It wasn’t his fault, really, but the smoking pan called France’s attention.  The apples and sweet onion were salvaged, but Arthur was banished from the kitchen with a swat on the rear from the Frenchman’s dish towel.  Disheartened, he roamed the halls for a bit before finding Francis’ surprisingly vast collection of literature.  ‘I had no idea Francis read Austen,” he thought to himself before plopping down in an armchair with a worn copy of  Emma .

Dinner finished presently, and Arthur shuffled into the kitchen only to be shooed into the dining room with a stack of china and cutlery.  If there was one thing the Englishman could do well it was table etiquette, and by the time France came out of the kitchen with the steaming platters of food, the silverware was set out and the napkins folded.

With one glance at the spread on the table, England’s mouth watered.  The pork was juicy and soft, the apples and onion luscious, and the chard with almond slivers looked divine.  Francis noticed England’s look of desire and quipped with an easy laugh, “would that you looked in  _ my _ direction like that.  I fear I may be jealous of the soup tureen.”  This earned him a glare from Arthur that indicated the other man was considering slinging the butter plate in his direction, and he pulled out the Englishman’s chair with mock-severity and a shallow bow.  A smile played across Arthur’s lips as he seated himself.  France joined him momentarily, and the two tucked in.

It was a hearty affair, and by the time the evening light dimmed, they’d devoured all the crusty bread, with a backhanded compliment from Francis: “Not bad for someone who can’t sort out the difference between salt and sugar.”  Another glare his way, and another grin in return.

They retired to living room with glasses of wine, peeling oranges for dessert.  The atmosphere was pleasant and content.‘ _ This must be the longest we’ve gone without fighting,’ _ thought the Frenchman to himself as he watched England’s head begin to nod.  He reached across the coffee table and took the other nation’s wineglass and set it down before saying, “It appears to be time for bed.”

Arthur gave a noncommittal grunt and a swing of his head.

France took this as a sign of encouragement and slung one of the other nation’s arms over his shoulder, steering him up out of the chair and into the hall.  Partway up the stairs he paused and said, “You know,  _ Angleterre _ , I never did clean up the spare room.”

Arthur looked up blearily at the other man before drooping again and said, “Whatever. . . Your room’s fine.”

The two slip into bed again, and to his credit the Frenchman didn’t once cop a feel on England, despite having the overwhelming urge to do so with the little sparrow of  a man with his unruly hair and ridiculous eyebrows so tantalizingly close.

**  
That said, Francis doesn’t complain when Arthur rolls over in the middle of the night and wriggles up against the Frenchman’s chest.  France just tucks his chin over the Englishman’s head and falls asleep dreaming of a little sparrow with startlingly green eyes. **


	3. Pastry and Cigarette Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say pillow fight? No? To bad...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I realized (thanks to a wonderful reader) that I posted chapter two twice. The error has now been corrected and here's the real chapter three ...

The sun rose and traced its path up the side of the Parisienne sky.  It’s smile dripped butter through Francis’ curtains and left droplets of jasmine and primrose on the bed linens.  A tickle tickled Francis’ nose - _a ticklish sort of tickle_ , he mused sleepily.  He let out a torpid laugh, caught in an early-morning waystation somewhere between a giggle and a groan.  France felt something against his chest and reflexively curled into it, cinching it against his abdomen with one leg.  Instead of the tickle subsiding however, it only intensified, the culprit now pressed flush against his nose.  It was downy and light, like feathers. . . or hair.  One blue eye blinked open slowly, then the second.  A glance down confirmed France’s suspicions: there was a man in his bed - for the second morning in a row.  Arthur Kirkland.  

 

The other nation’s head was tucked under Francis’ chin.  Arthur’s nose prodded the other man’s adam’s apple, his soft exhalation making Francis’ breath catch in his chest.  Studying Arthur’s face, the Frenchman drew the bittersweet conclusion he wouldn’t at all mind waking up this way every day for the rest of his long, long life.  

 

Though the morning previous he had slipped out of bed before the Englishman woke, France couldn’t bear to leave the other man in a bed whose sheets felt far too expansive in solitude.  Arthur looked so young in the pale morning light, a startling contrast from his demeanor at the market.  France leaned over, mattress dipping under his weight, and bent to kiss England’s forehead.  Dimly, he registered there were small freckles all along the bridge of the other nation’s nose.  He pressed a kiss to the other man’s brow.  Arthur stirred underneath him, and Francis could feel the Englishman’s small bones shifting under their muscular cover.   _So delicate_.

 

One green eye opened, and with a sleep-soggy yawn, England mumbled, “Get off of me, Bonnefoy.”

 

France chuckled.  This was the same England he had known for so many years.  Instead of obeying the other man’s sleepy request, he flopped onto his belly next to Arthur.  Flinging an arm over him, Francis pulled him in close and poked a finger in his side.  Arthur spasmed and gave a wild flail, now fully awake.  “You bloody wanker!”

 

This only spurred the Frenchman on.  Grinning madly, he tickled England’s neck and was rewarded with a decidedly unmasculine squeal. Arthur thrashed and knotted the bed linens between their legs but he couldn’t get free.  In retaliation he jabbed a finger into Francis’ belly.  Arthur was surprised at the high-pitched giggle the other nation released as he curled in on himself like a beetle.  Francis grabbed one of the long pillows and swung it hard at Arthur’s head, where it connected with a satisfying _whump_.  

 

England toppled backward and landed with his legs flailing in the air, waving his arms wildly as Francis descended on top of him.  

 

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”  The Englishman wheezed between gasping breaths.  France’s face split into a wide grin and he settled his weight on the smaller man’s frame, propping his head on his arms as he watched Arthur thrashing.  

 

“I have you beat, _Angleterre_ ,” he purred, but the sultry look was wiped off his face as England brought a pillow down on the back of his head.  Arthur wrapped his heels around the Frenchman’s waist and heaved.  Francis found himself on his back, Arthur balanced on his chest.  He decided he didn’t like the malevolent smirk the other man was wearing.  

 

Arthur proceeded to bring the pillow hard down on France's face, chest, and outstretched arms.  He almost wanted to be angry with the Frenchman, but he couldn't - not when the sunlight made the room look like a lemon's peel and Francis was laughing, his hair spread in a halo on the pillow, and his blue eyes crinkled with crow's feet at the edges.  He had a little quirk at the corner of one smile, not quite a dimple but a place where the skin had folded after many years of laughing.  England found himself pausing in spite of wanting to beat France until feathers flew.  The pillow hovered a moment too long as he contemplated the line of the Frenchman's jaw and his evenly-spaced, _ridiculously appealing_ teeth ( _how could_ _teeth_ _be so damn appealing?)_ and then -

 

Arthur's back hit the mattress and the Englishman's breath went out with a _woosh_ and suddenly France was looming over him again. " _Bonjour, mon petit oiseau,_ " he purred, words dripping sensually off his lips.  England's chest prickled at this, a happy little pinch that cut his breath short.

 

This time France went for the armpits, and he reveled in the way Arthur laughed and twisted away from his searching fingers. _My little one is so beautiful when he is laughing.  His eyes could hold the sun if they wanted to._

 

"Enough. . . Enough. . ." A wheezing England rolled onto his side.  Francis slipped off his hips and down next to Arthur, whom he pulled back into his arms with the rake of one hand.  Thoroughly exhausted, the two caught their breath, heart beats slowing reckless pounding.

 

"That is the most fun I've had in ages," Francis chuckled, slightly breathless.  He threaded his fingers through Arthur's hair and stroked at the silky locks, eyes intent on the Englishman's face.  

 

High color stood on England's pale cheeks as he mumbled, "shut up, frog.  I can't possibly understand why you would want to start the morning that way." Nettled, his sandy brows knit together, giving him the impression of an owl fallen from it's nest.

 

"Why, this is the best way to start the morning, of course!" The Frenchman cried as he gestured expansively with one arm.  England rolled his eyes and turned away in a fit of pique.  Francis prodded his back but all he received for his pains was a grumble, so he uprooted the Englishman from his blanket nest.  Tucked into the circle of France's arms once more, he finally stopped struggling and went still with a sigh.  

 

"I suppose you'll be wanting breakfast," Francis said goodnaturedly.  "I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready." This was met by a hum of approval. He just looked so tasty, with his bedhead and infuriating eyebrows all wrapped up in the coverlet and -

 

They met each other's gaze and something in the Frenchman's eyes made England shrink in on himself.  France's smile seemed suddenly pointy and hungry.  Their faces were so close, France's breath ghosted over Arthur's cheeks. Close, so close, and the adrenaline from the pillow fight still rushing- on impulse, Francis leaned in and placed a small kiss on the corner of England's mouth.  The other nation's eyes widened, and he blinked several times in perplexion.  Arthur looked more than a little taken aback.  

 

France, now aware of just what he'd done, swung his feet over the edge of the wrought iron bed frame and stood.  The pure moment of laughter now seemed tainted, a little crumpled around the edges, an E flat major scale minisculey sharp on the A.  Balancing on the creaky floor boards, his feet popped as he made his way to the door.  For someone who was accustomed to being able to get away with what he wanted, Francis felt remarkably guilty for pushing Arthur too far so early in the morning.  Mostly he wanted the earth to swallow him up, because - and this was the scariest revelation of all -it would be the only thing preventing him from running back to the bed and kissing England again. So he kept walking and tried to contain his erratic breathing and aching rib cage.  At the hall, he paused and turned toward the supine Englishman, collecting the remnants of his composure.

 

"Get up soon, _petit chou_. There's someplace special I want to take you today."  He wagged his brows and disappeared into the hall.  As soon as the other man was gone, Arthur let out a sigh and fell backward onto the rumpled bed, the corner of his mouth on fire and his heart beating far faster than it had during the pillow fight.

 

The Frenchman had been careful to exit the room nonchalantly, but his facade dropped as soon as he rounded the corner and he practically fled to the kitchen.  

 

In the kitchen, Francis leaned against the counter, cupboard knobs digging uncomfortably into the small of his back. He put his head in his hands, thinking of the kiss he'd given Arthur. _What the hell am I playing at?_ He wondered. The leaves of the tree outside the casement reminded him of Arthur's eyes.

 

* * *

 

Francis elected to make _pain au chocolat_ for breakfast.  Puff pastry was good at taking his mind off of things, anyway.  

 

As he folded the butter in, careful not to overwork it, France could hear the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall.  A robin's egg colored thing, he'd bought it some time ago in a garage sale, and right now the comforting clicking seemed entirely too loud in the small kitchen.

 

_When will you come down, Angleterre? You make me worry that I've scared you away. . ._

 

To fight the silence, France chopped the chocolate far louder than necessary, and the way he scraped it off the cutting board verged on militant. The chocolate went into a bowl with a _whump_ that made it rattle tipsily across the counter.  

 

The chocolate was folded into the dough, and the _pain au chocolat_ placed in the warm oven. Now with nothing to distract himself, the silence seemed louder than ever.

 

 _I can't believe I actually kissed him_. For once, the amorous nation was beginning to regret being so forward with his urges.

 

The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to be a scream.  

 

Francis set an egg timer for twenty minutes and stomped out onto the patio, flinging his apron off as he went.  He needed a smoke.

 

Francis had promised Arthur at some obscure point in time that he'd quit.   _It was probably around World War II,_ he reasoned.   _I really did mean to quit. . . But then there was Soviet Russia. . . And the economic recession . . . And the time my police force went on strike.  I wonder if this is a promise I'll ever keep. . ._

 

He pulled the pack of Marlboros out from under seat cushion and dropped into the patio chair with a sigh.  The sun was still barely up and from somewhere it the city he could smell baking bread, but exhaustion lay heavy in his bones. France tapped a cigarette out of the carton and stared at it regretfully before bringing it to his mouth.  The Frenchman inhaled as he lit the cigarette and then clicked the lighter off, stashing it back under the seat cushion with the carton.  He took a drag and felt the smoke set his lungs on fire before breathing it out in a noxious stream.  Francis tilted his head against the back of the chair and let his eyes fall closed.  A perk of being a nation was not getting cancer, but watching his citizens shrivel up, their lungs clogged with tar from their beloved tobacco was quickly making this pastime lose its romanticism for Francis.  It was a habit he’d tried hard to kick, but he still felt the urge when he was anxious or under stress.  Like now.  

 

The cigarette began to burn itself out, and France tapped the ash onto the ground before taking another drag, then letting loose another lazy exhale.  Smoke filled the air with blue haze.  The egg timer began to ring, small pinging noises from inside the kitchen, and Francis was halfway out of his chair before the rattling stopped sharply.  Still partially elevated from his seat, he heard the oven door open, the metal rack pulled out, and a clang as the cookie sheet was set on the counter.  There was a thud as the oven door closed, and then a handful of footsteps crossing the expanse of floor to the patio door.  

 

The patio door slid open and Francis settled himself back into his chair, feining disinterest and taking another drag of his cigarette in a feeble attempt to conceal his erratic heartbeat.  Arthur stepped out onto the porch and wrinkled his nose at the smoke.  “Those are going to kill you one of these days.”

 

“ _Au contraire, mon petit chou_.  Nothing much will kill us; certainly not a cigarette.”  Francis waved his butt expansively.

 

“I don’t understand this filthy habit of yours.”

 

“Don’t pretend you’ve never smoked, love.  Down in the trenches, you smoked as much as I did.” A sly glance to the Englishman.

 

“We all did.”

 

“It’s a habit I just can’t break, I’m afraid.  Me and my people love it too much.”

 

England snorted.  “You stupid, stupid French.  You really do need to stop.”

 

“ _Ne fume pas? C’est très américain!”_ The Frenchman said sardonically.

 

“It has nothing to do with America.  I don’t like how they smell on you,” Arthur said, his voice edged in something sharp.  “It’s worse than your drinking.”  He turned and went inside, screen door banging.

 

“ _My_ drinking, Angleterre?”  France called back inside the house, but he stubbed out the butt and tossed it in the waste bin before heading inside as well.  He found England poking halfheartedly at a pastry, the other man’s gaze trained at an imaginary spot on the wall.  

 

“I’m sorry, love.”  Francis came up behind Arthur and wrapped his arms around his waist.  “That was uncalled for on my part.”  he leaned his chin on the other nation’s shoulder.  “We’ll both work on our drinking, I’ll work on my smoking and you will too - don’t pretend you don’t sneak a cigarette once and awhile too; I can tell.”

 

England shifted from foot to foot and gave a noncommittal groan.  He leaned his head back into Francis' chest, and Francis couldn't help but remember the morning's events that he'd so desperately new trying to forget.

 

Arthur spoke in a low, soft tone. "Are we going to talk about this morning?"

 

France have a little start and then said lightly, "Not if you don't want to." He paused, and then added, "I'm sorry to have rushed you.  I though maybe -"

 

"It was nice." England looked down at the floor.  "I didn't mind at all," he mumbled, lips pursed.

 

With a chuckle, Francis placed another small kiss on Arthur, this one behind his ear at the joint of his jaw and neck.  The Englishman sucked in a breath, but relaxed into France.

 

Francis pulled away and whispered, "Would you like breakfast now, love?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was literally supposed to be a oneshot, and yet here I am, with three more chapters lined up...
> 
> They are consuming my soul.


	4. Jigsaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis loves shopping - how could you expect anything else from him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much of this fic seems to revolve around food. Oh well \\(^o^)/. In any case, these two are so cute I can't get enough of them help

Breakfast was a leisurely affair.  The  _ pain au chocolate _ was consumed slowly, each individual flake of pastry pulled apart, eaten with strong black coffee and slivers of grapefruit.  

Francis popped a lobe in his mouth and then peeled his lips back, revealing a humorous, citrus smile in place of teeth. 

 

Arthur looked up briefly at France’s noise of accomplishment and snorted, saying, “You do that, idiot, and you'll choke.  I won't pay for funeral expenses." But he hid a small smile in his coffee mug.  Francis swallowed down the fruit and grinned.  

 

Francis shot Arthur a rakish smirk and took a long sip from his coffee.  His mug was a rustic thing, gradations of blue glaze dripped together like candle wax, or a painting by Dali.  Arthur studied his own cup, a simple, white ceramic mug with a pattern of various bears.  Not what he would have chosen, but the signs of years of loving use, the caffeine rings at the rim and the chip at the lip near the handle, endeared it to him.  

 

Catching the Englishman's scrutiny, France chuckled before fondly saying, “Matthew uses that mug whenever he visits; refuses to use a different one.  I realize that particular one may be a little juvenile for you, but it was the only other clean at present.”

 

“It’s fine.  I like it.”

 

There was a pause from the Frenchman, and then, “Coffee cup preferences aside, there was something I was hoping we could do today,” Francis set his mug down, intent gaze fixed on England.

 

“Oh?”  England cocked his head, a bit of pastry partway to his mouth.

 

He gestured with one arm, smirking.  “Let’s go sightseeing.  I daresay you have not seen enough of my lovely Paris, and your own country is so abysmally damp and grey that your perception of beauty must be stunted. I feel I must educate you.”

 

England’s eye twitched, and the pastry wavered in the air.  Opting for a succinct “Up yours, frog,” he popped the bread in his mouth. 

 

Eyes crinkling, France laughed.  “Let’s go.”  His chair scraped as he stood and gathered the empty plates.  France tugged Arthur’s plate away from him, eliciting a cry of protest.

 

“I wasn’t done with that!”

 

“We’re going.”  He gave a large smile that looked eerily similar to one from the pirate days of France’s youth.

 

The Englishman stared at Francis.  “I haven’t finished breakfast.”

 

“Grab your coat; we’re going exploring.  The best times for exploring Paris are early morning or midnight, so we’d better leave now.” He spoke with the carefree air of someone who was beyond such simple things as finishing breakfast before going adventuring. 

 

Arthur grabbed for his plate.  “But-”

 

“Coat.” 

 

England had just enough time to swallow down his now-cooling coffee before he was dragged to his feet by the Frenchman.  

 

The door shut behind the two men, one laughing, long hair blowing in the wind, and the other struggling to gather his coat closer while swearing half-heartedly at the Frenchman gripping his hand.  A single slice of grapefruit was left at the table, a sunny smile.

 

* * *

 

All in all, freezing his butt off in the middle of the French winter was only partially outweighed by the sight of Francis capering about doing what must have been an impression of the genie from Aladdin, silk scarf wrapped around his head like a turban. 

 

The two had wound up deep in the heart of L _ es Puces _ , a sprawling network of flea markets in Clignancourt after Francis had pulled them haphazardly onto the metro saying with far too much insouciance, “Let’s go where the train takes us.”  The stalls were brightly colored, periwinkle wisteria growing over the tops of awnings and tickling the heads of passersby.  Antique furniture, old paintings, and cloth spilled out of doorways and off tables.

 

“Arthur , let’s go over there!” Francis caught the Englishman by the hand and dragged him towards a stall like a child dashing for candy.

 

They were presently standing at a booth France had dragged them to, an array of scarves having caught his eye.  A serious discussion between Arthur and the vendor had somehow turned into an impromptu costumed performance on the Frenchman’s part when his repeated efforts to gain Arthur’s attention failed.  With renewed determination, France wrapped a scarf around his head and launched into his best rendition of ‘Prince Ali.’  Which put them in their current situation: Arthur, uncomfortably cold and serenaded with Disney songs by a French lunatic in the middle of a flea market, attracting considerable attention from the other patrons.  He believed that, in his current situation, America would have said something like ‘FML,’ whatever that meant.  Either way, his cheeks were heating up, brows knitting together.  

 

“Prince Ali, handsome as he…” Francis did a twirl in the booth, escaping upsetting a ceramic urn by a narrow margin.  “What a physique, how can I speak? Bent at one knee…”  His grin was positively shark-like as he dragged a finger along the Englishman’s shoulder.

 

The stall owner was an old man whose craggy face looked like it had been carved from the cobblestones they were standing on.  The man gave France a reproachful look over the top of his spectacles.  Irritated, Arthur tugged on Francis’ sleeve hissing, “Be quiet, you stupid frog.”  Francis did nothing of the sort, instead doubling over with laughter in response to the scandalized glares from England and the shopkeeper.  England, realizing the old man was in danger of going into cardiac arrest, dropped a ten euro note next to the man’s till, saying sharply, “Thank you for your time,” before dragging a cackling France off by the wrist.

 

He towed the Frenchman a good two blocks before letting go, snarling, “Can you never act your age?”

 

“Puzzled, Francis tugged the scarf down around his neck before replying with a laugh, “Live a little,  _ rosbif _ .  We’re thousands of years old; let's take a little time to be young again." His motivational speech was cut short as he caught sight of some old china in a corner stall.  Francis darted off to converse with the shop owner about the finer differences between Limoges and Noritake china.  Arthur shook his head in amusement; sometimes the Frenchman had the attention span of a toddler.

 

"I think we need these," Francis said, holding a blue-patterned white china plate up for Arthur's inspection.

 

_ We? _ Arthur blinked in surprise. 'We,' implied a certain degree of . . . permanence. 

 

He took the plate from France's hands and tilted it this way and that but he was paying the china little mind, preoccupied with the other man's earlier statement.   _ We _ . . . 

 

"Don't you have enough china?" He queried. 

 

"An eclectic mix of pottery is a necessity for every household," replied Francis blithely, "and in any case, these are antique Haviland." His tone implied apparent unawareness of the depth of what he'd just said. "I like these very much, and I do need more tea plates." France gave a decisive nod.

 

That apparently settled the matter for the Frenchman, because soon after, the two of them were walking away from the stall carrying a bag of brown-paper-wrapped Haviland dishes. 

 

"I can't believe you bought those," grumbled Arthur, "they were €100.  For six plates!" 

 

Francis hummed happily and looked up at the sky. "A particularly good investment, I think."

 

England shook his head. "You are incorrigible."

 

"And you are a cheapskate."

 

"Shut up, you frivolous frog."

 

* * *

 

After a morning spent browsing through vintage clothing, records, and other paraphernalia, the two collapsed onto a park bench in Marmottan Square.  Following buying the plates, France had purchased in quick succession some small prints of the Loire, a set of rose-gold cuff links, and a green linen table cloth.  After some miserly grumbling, England had given in and purchased some old vinyl records of the Smiths and Pink Floyd and a lumpy, blue wool sweater.  Compared to Francis, whose myriad shopping bags and packages surrounded him till they looked like satellites orbiting a fashion-conscious planet, he left  _ Les Puces _ with a light load.

 

With Arthur at one end of the bench, the Frenchman opted to pile his bags on the other, careful of the china.  At that point there was only a small sliver of room left, and Francis deftly wedged himself in the middle of it, proclaiming, “It’s good to rest my old bones!” and stretched his long legs out with a sigh.  Crunched up against the arm of the bench, Arthur shot the other man a dirty look.

 

“Shove over, you prick.”

 

“ _ Non, mon ami _ .  I am ever so cold, you see, and I fear I may freeze without your warmth.”  France punctuated this statement by wrapping an arm around England’s shoulders and cinching him closer.  

 

Arthur buried his chin in his coat collar with a sigh.  Resigning himself to France’s antics he instead focused his attention on his surroundings.  The sky was the palest shade of blue, like a translucent skin stretched over the lid of the world.  Trees stood around them, branches denuded and rattling in the slight breeze.  A few people passed by, heads bent against the wind.  Paris looked like it was slowly sinking into hibernation, the trees and bushes and people slightly diminished in the face of the cold.  Arthur tucked his chin farther into his coat until only his nose was visible.  France settled against his side and leaned his head on the Englishman’s shoulder.

 

“I want cocoa.”  The statement startled England out of his reverie.

 

“Cocoa? What are you, three?” 

 

“Something like that, yeah,”  Francis quipped.  “In any case, as lovely as sitting here with you is, not much longer and I will freeze my more important bits off entirely.” 

 

He stood and stretched, back popping, before gathering his bags.  Arthur watched him curiously.  He had admit he was cold as well - not that he was going to admit that to France.  A quick circle around the square revealed what France had been looking for: food carts.  An assortment of street vendors were lined up under one of the trees across from the main gate.  Giving a shout of triumph, Francis accosted one of the vendors, managing to exuberantly wrest two mugs of hot chocolate away in exchange for five euros before striding back across the square.  Arthur accepted one of the ceramic cups, his stiff fingers screaming their thanks for the sudden warmth.

 

Steam from the cocoa mingled in the air with the plumes of their breath as Francis settled back beside England, his shoulder pressed amiably against the other man’s.  

 

The first sip of the chocolate was so hot, Francis couldn’t taste anything but the pain.  The second sip proved to be more fruitful, the silky sweet sliding over his tongue like something sensuous and dark.  He sighed in contentment; he always had loved Parisian chocolate the best.

 

“I love it here in the winter,” Francis said, disrupting the silence, “It seems like time has slowed, the whole world sleeping.”

 

Arthur looked up. “I know what you mean.”

 

“Where do you love best in the winter,  _ Angleterre _ ?”

 

The Englishman thought for a moment. “Dover.  The way the mist comes off the channel, if you stand on the cliffs, you can’t see a thing.  And the hills of the countryside are covered in dew.  If we’re lucky, it snows.”

 

“It sounds lovely.”

 

“It is.”

 

They drizzled into silence, hot chocolate consumed slowly, its heat expended in the afternoon air.  Drinks finished and mugs returned to the vendor, they caught the metro back to Francis’ flat.

 

The metro car rattled through the tunnels under the city, fluorescent tubes the only illumination this far under the earth.  It suddenly struck Arthur how mundane it was, riding the tube with Francis, swaying in time to the bends in the tunnel, shopping bags scattered at their feet.  What a human thing to do to go shopping and then sit on a bench drinking cocoa before heading home on the subway.

 

He snuck a glance at Francis, who was holding onto a shoulder strap and making eyes at a cute brunette.  The Frenchman took his hands off the strap to gesture in the air, saying something that made the girl laugh.  

 

There was condensation collected at the corners of the car windows.

 

The car lurched, and France lost his balance, staggering into England with a cry.  The Englishman unceremoniously caught the other man by the collar, making no particular effort to be gentle.  He snorted, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at the girl as if to say, ‘what a pain this friend of mine is,’ and pulled France to his feet.  Subdued, France took a firm grip of the metal pole beside England.  

 

The rest of the metro ride passed in relative quietude.  In the silence, Arthur decided that this feeling, riding the subway with Francis felt good.  It felt  _ right _ .

 

Later, they made their way home - it was a home to Arthur, at least for now, wasn’t it? - under the setting sun.  Anyone watching the two men strolling down the lane would have remarked on how the two seemed to fit together like old jigsaw pieces: a little worn around the edges but fitting together with the same surety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Francis act like an old married couple, I swear. I love it.  
> Here's the link to the Haviland plates that inspired this chapter: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/39125090487434398/


	5. Tannenbaum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Francis buy a Christmas tree and act like an old married couple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update has been so long in the coming and I apologize in advance.  I’ve been trying to streamline the writing process by creating a flow chart for plot.  Ugh  
> Also, I feel like there’s so much potential with FrUK because as countries - disregarding Himaruya’s characterizations of them - they are so dynamic and have so much history.  I think that’s what makes it so fun writing them in general because there’s so much background and subtext to draw from, to be fitted into the cannon characterization.  IDK  
> Ugh they have consumed my soul.  Oh well.

Winter in Paris is a decadent affair.  Arthur noted the row houses by and large remained undecorated, but boulevards and thoroughfares were bedecked with lights and wreaths until the sidewalks looked like something from a fairytale.  The trees were strung with strings of lights and baubles till they glittered in the evening light.

 

In Paris, snow fell intermittently, and the sidewalks cycled between dazzling white and dirty slush.  Despite this, urbanites were undeterred, making their way through the streets bundled up in parkas, anoraks, and a motley assortment of knitted-wear. 

 

Francis complained the cold was hard on his joints, which he mostly used as an excuse to pile on more eiderdowns and laze about in bed to an indecent hour.  England didn’t fight against this as hard as he could’ve, though the eiderdowns were becoming excessive.  They numbered five in total, and their combined insulation plus the additional heat of a Frenchman-turned-industrial-furnace was about enough to boil England like a plum pudding.

 

(Arthur kept pestering France to clear out the spare room, but whenever the other man said he would, suddenly “Bread had to be baked,” and “Linen aired,” and “Arthur, would you please clean the gutters out? Thank you, dear.”  England was convinced France delayed as long as possible simply to enjoy the Machiavellian-esque torture of roasting him in the bedcovers.)

 

About a week before Christmas, Arthur awoke feeling much like he imagined a side of roast beef would in the oven: perspiring, feverish, and suffocated.  Any attempt to roll over proved fruitless; Francis was firmly attached to his back, one arm hooked around the Englishman’s waist and his stubble scratching the other man’s neck.  Francis’ solid chest felt like a radiator, and when England shifted, he realized their shirts were damp with sweat.  Under the oppressive weight of five down comforters, just having two people in bed was miserable enough, but when one decides to spoon - well.  

 

Francis let out a delicate snore, opening his arms somewhat to stretch.  Arthur, spotting his chance, broke free of the grasping, sweaty limbs and rolled to the far side of the bed.  His first order of business was to stick his feet out from under the blanket-monstrosity, sighing at the welcome chill.  How Francis managed to survive - and thrive - under there was beyond him.

 

Arthur sat up and looked back at the sleeping man, who looked very peaceful, albeit a little sweat-sticky.  He wiped some damp hair off his forehead, fanned the collar of his nightshirt, and looked at the alarm.  Ten in the morning.  Ridiculous frog.  A morning person, England couldn’t really understand the desire to loaf about squandering daylit hours.  He much preferred to be up early with a cup of tea and the paper, the staticky fuzz of the radio for company.

 

Free from the other man’s constricting arms, Arthur took the time to survey the room, the white wintry light shining in through the window, and the quantity of eiderdowns, one almost slipping down to the floor.  England swung his legs out into the open and slid off the bed to the creaky floorboards.  An old brass-framed thing, the bed stood a good two and a half feet off the floor, and any attempt to exit quietly was thwarted by the rickety metal and long drop down. 

 

Crossing the room to the window, Arthur threw back the bolt, heaved the time-warped casement open, and breathed in cool air.  The drapery fluttered, and wind chased the vestiges of sleep and nighttime moisture from the corners of the room.  A Francis-shaped lump stirred in bed, raked the errant eiderdown back up, and nested further down against the morning chill.  

 

Arthur shook his head at the lump, and exited the room in search of tea.

 

* * *

 

A mug of oolong in hand, Arthur had just plopped himself into a blue paisley armchair by the window when in a sleep-scratchy voice Francis said, “Only a wet blanket rises as early as you, Arthur, my love.”

 

“I’m not Your Love,” the Englishman groused, “and it’s ten o’clock.”

 

“One thing you discover in an eternity as long as mine is that sleeping late is one of life’s simpler pleasures.”  Francis gestured expansively, comforter slipping off one shoulder.  He crossed the room to Arthur.  France opened the eiderdown and wrapped England into it, saying, “now we look just like a cannoli.”

 

England grumbled and wriggled free, slopping a little tea onto his knuckles.  “You’re not Italian, and I’m too hot.”

 

“Anyone can can channel their inner Mediterranean pastry.”

 

“I swear, if you makes jokes about creamy filling -”

 

“Wouldn't dream of it.” A small smile. “Desserts aside, there’s something I want to do today.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“We need a Christmas tree.  I always get one, and you might as well come with me to carry it.”

 

* * *

An hour later, dressed and coffee gulped down, the pair bundled up in winter gear and hit the streets.  The pair made their way through the  _ Haut Marais  _ neighborhood where Francis lived.

 

England, for all his many years, had never been part of French Christmas celebration before - not exactly surprising given their centuries of rocky history.  They tramped through the packed snow and rounding a corner, Francis pulled England inside a small  _ boulangerie _ .  

 

“My favorite bakery,” Francis gestured about.  “I realize half past eleven is a little late for breakfast, but it’s never too late for pastries.”

 

They settled at a table near the window with a plate of chouquette and whittled away an hour or so sipping their lattes and contemplating the frost on the thick panes.  

 

“After centuries of living in cities,” Francis mused, “I have decided everything looks cleaner in winter.  The dirt, the buildings, the traces of humans, all covered by snow.”

 

“The snow hides our imperfections.”

 

“Indeed.  I look out at all this - “ Francis waved an arm out the window - “And as far as we have come - for we have made such magnificent progress - one doesn’t have to look far to see the ugliness of our rapacious greed.”

 

“I sometimes wonder how long it will take for the humans to realize what we realized ages ago.  They are so caught up in the now, the immediate, the call and desire - as we once were - that the larger picture is almost entirely obscured.  I wonder if they will only realize when it is too late.  We certainly did.  They resemble us to much.  All our inconsistencies, our desires, they are magnified in their short, bright lives.  They have all our wonder, packed into a life measured in decades, not in centuries, not millennia.  But they have all our worst parts, and I’m not sure how well we control them.  We never controlled ourselves.”

 

France smiled wryly.  “What’s a king to a mob?”

 

“You would know.”

 

“Ouch.”

 

Arthur ate the last chouquette in two bites.  “Let’s go.  I want to see these scrawny shrubs you French call Christmas trees.”

 

“They are not  _ shrubs _ ,” exclaimed France in indignation somewhat undercut by the snorts of laughter he was struggling to suppress.  

 

“We’ll see about that.  I doubt you can stack up against the might of a real English fir.” 

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later, having stopped at a nearby street vendor for their tree, Francis desperately ignored Arthur’s snickering.

 

“For the love of God, you’re as bad as Alfred!” protested Francis feebly.

 

“I can’t believe you’re willing to pay 35 euros for a bush that my grandmother could punt across the village green.”

 

“Considering your grandmother’s history, I’d believe you if you said she could throw an oak tree across the channel.  Gaul was quite taken with her.”

 

“Don’t deflect.  It doesn’t change the fact that you are a grown man carrying a twig that doesn’t reach your ribs.”

 

“Just for that, you get to carry the tree.”

 

“Ah, woe is me,” Arthur clapped a hand to his heart, “the burden of this sturdy pine is too much for me to bear.”

 

“ _ Tais-toi. _ ” 

 

* * *

 

Francis and Arthur braved the spare room for the decorations and tree stand.

 

_ “Will you ever clean it out?” “Not likely, cher.” _

 

“Put the stand down quickly, would you?”  Arthur groused.  “I want to set down this bloody shrub.”

 

“I told you to get the tarp - then you wouldn’t have to hold it.”

 

“And I told you, I don’t know where the tarp is, you git.”

 

Francis curled a lip, but decided the benefit of seeing Arthur holding the tree one-armed on his shoulder, his shirt drawn tight across his chest, outweighed the Englishman’s grumbling. 

 

Tarp located under the spare bed and wrapped around the tree -  _ don't wrap me up too, you ass  _ \- the two men turned to the task of locating the lights. 

 

Francis pulled open the closet door.  A few seconds of silence passed and then:

 

“And now I understand what Nietzche meant when he said he had stared into the abyss.”

 

“Do be quiet.  My closet is a reflection of a life well-lived.”

 

“Your closet is sentient. I can feel it staring into my soul.”

 

“Just find the lights, dearest.”

 

Arthur turned his attention to the closet. The two men tackled opposite ends, and Francis eventually lost sight of Arthur behind a stack of heirloom linens.  A few minutes later, he heard a thud, a muffled curse, and then a box tumbled into view.  Francis chuckled. 

 

“Wanker.”

 

“Is this a good time to tell you I just realized the lights were actually on my side?”

 

Arthur lobbed a soft nicknack at the back Francis’ head. 

 

* * *

 

From the amount of disagreement over how to decorate the tree, it could easily have been assumed that the  _ Entente Cordiale  _ had in fact never been signed. 

 

To his credit; Arthur only tried to strangle Francis with the string of lights once -  _ there is no rational being on earth that would tolerate you nuzzling at their ear saying there was tinsel in their hair, you wanker. _

 

Francis looked up from his place on the living room floor and held his wrists, bound up with a string of lights, aloft.  “ _ Cher _ , if these incandescents weren’t so warm, you tying me up would almost be kinky.”

 

“Shut up, you twit.”

 

“Untie me please?”

 

“Not on your life.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys will not believe the amount of research I’ve had to do for this fic.  Weather in France, Christmas traditions, neighborhoods in Paris that would be likely to have homes similar to the one I designed for Francis.  Writing about foreign countries is always a big mistake (read as: labor of love).  Do as I say, not as I do, Y’all.    
> Also: I'm not even kidding when I say French Christmas trees are very small. Like, shorter-than-me small. And I'm not even five feet.  
> On a separate note, this chapter has been a long time coming, and I’m so happy you guys have stuck with me.  Feel free to leave me comments or suggestions; I love to hear from you guys!


	6. Hope is a Feathered Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today at 9:00 -  
> "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of - a sugar baby?"  
> In other words, Arthur asserts that he's a big boy while also struggling to find suitable Christmas gifts for the man whose bed he shares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame Jane Austen.  
> (These two idiots really do have a Darcy/Elizabeth relationship, though)
> 
> Separately, we've all had that one person we couldn't think of a gift for, right? I mean, they're not usually millennia-old colonialists with seven-digit bank accounts but hey, anxiety (I could go on for hours about imperialism so stop me now). 
> 
> Y'all, I did so much research. I looked up pages of city maps/bus lines and plotted routes with French Metro. All the locations here are real, and if it so possessed you, you could follow the directions given to find them.

When Arthur woke in the morning, Francis, rather uncharacteristically, was not in bed.  Night clothes piled on the wooden chair by the window suggested that the other man had already dressed to greet the day. 

 

Arthur dragged himself from the blankets - though he wouldn't admit it, he enjoyed lazing about in bed when there wasn't a Frenchman to superheat the bedcovers - and made his way to the kitchen.

 

The house was oddly quiet without the clatter of Francis' early-morning bustle.  The pale blue walls of the stairwell were dappled with sun, and the air was very still.  Arthur could see small motes of dust floating silently through the sunshine.  The floorboards showed the slow passage of decades, warped and uneven with years of moisture and the seasons, worn smooth on the treads by thousands of steps.  They creaked under Arthur's feet.

 

There was no sign of Francis in the kitchen, but there was a tray of food and one place-setting on the rough-hewn wood of the dining table. 

 

An inspection of the tray yielded thyme and currant scones with a pot of jam, and a bowl of citrus - blood oranges.  There was also a pot of French-press coffee wrapped in a cozy, a pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar.

 

A closer look revealed a note tucked below the silverware:

 

_Arthur, I hope the breakfast is to your liking.  Though you English lot are picky, I think this spread will be suitable for even your coarse palate. -_

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. _Git_.

 

_\- I've gone out to do some holiday shopping; while I would like nothing more than to spend another day in your company showing you the Parisian roads less travelled, it wouldn't do to have you hovering while I buy your Christmas gifts. -_

 

Arthur flushed here - he had not expected Francis to want him to stay for the holidays, though if he was being truthful he would acknowledge that he had cancelled his hotel room three days earlier, in some flight of fancy he couldn't understand.

 

_\- There is an envelope of euro notes tucked under the plate -_

 

True to the letter, a creamy envelope poked out from beneath the china.

 

_\- In case you desire to do some shopping of your own.  I left at seven this morning and expect to be back around two in the afternoon; I would like it very much if you would once again accompany me to the market, that we might prepare a late afternoon repast._

  * _With love, Francis_



 

Arthur folded the note and placed it carefully on the table.  He opened the envelope and counted the money inside - two hundred euros and change.  Arthur shook his head and replaced the money in the envelope; it wouldn’t do to spend Francis' own money.  It was just like the Frenchman to unsettle him with the promise of gifts, subtly request he return the favor, and cap it with the quiet insinuation that Arthur was like a child in his home and he the father, doling out pocket money to an obedient son.  He would not play the obedient son here, not in this house, not with Francis, not when he - ah, well.

 

The envelope was scooted back across the table, this time with a note scrawled on the back:

 

_I am perfectly able to finance my own spending; the sentiment is appreciated but misplaced._

 

With that taken care of, Arthur sat down to breakfast.  Indeed, Francis had outdone himself; the scones were delicate, the fruit succulent and fresh.  Though Arthur would have preferred tea, it wouldn't do to waste the coffee.  The cream and sugar helped some.

 

He packaged the leftovers in glassware, washed and set to dry the dishes, and collected his things to leave the house.  He spared a final glance to the envelope on the table, and shook his head tiredly.  Gathering up his hat and gloves, wool coat buttoned and scarf hurriedly tied, he made his way to the foyer.  Arthur located the spare key below the potted fig and let himself out.

 

The winter wind bit the end of his nose as he looked down the lane.  Arthur pulled his scarf tighter.  He started off down the street.

 

Arthur was loathe to return to Clignancourt and the Les Puces flea market, for it  was all territory he'd covered with Francis.  He wanted to do some exploring of his own.  The lesser-known areas of Paris where the residents spoke only French did not intimidate him, for he spoke the language fluently - it had been the tongue of elegance in England for centuries, though Latin and Greek held court on the fields of Eton as languages of academia.

 

Realizing that he left the house with no concrete plan other than to irritate Francis, he plunked down on a nearby retaining wall and rummaged around in his pocket.  Contrary to popular (Alfred's) belief, he did in fact own and know how to use a smart phone, despite being an old fogey with a passion for needlepoint. 

 

 _'An old fogey with extensive dueling experience_ ,' _is his retort of choice for the young nation._

_'It's been a long time since dueling was in vogue, gramps.'_

_'I was a pirate, back in the day.  I haven't gone soft yet.'_

_'You made me a Fair Isle sweater for Christmas last year.'_

_'Then, so help me God, I'll run you through with my knitting needles.'_

 

A  quick google search revealed maps of the Paris train and bus lines and within five minutes Arthur was off, directions scrawled on a spare napkin and a bounce in his step.

 

He caught bus 20 down _Boulevard Beaumarchais_ , folding himself into a seat in the front.  Two stops in, he relinquished his seat to an elderly woman with a penchant for florals.  She patted his cheek and smiled,  Of course, she wanted his name, and after hearing his accent, why he was in town - _oh, he's staying with a friend? Is he getting enough to eat?_ And really, grandmothers everywhere are the same in all the best ways.

 

 She absolutely mothered him, plying him with a homemade pastry even when he said Francis made him breakfast ( _oh, really? Hang onto that one, dear.  My husband never made me biscuits.  He did leave me little notes in the morning, though_.).  He accepted the pastry - some sort of sweet nut roll - tucking the waxed paper bundle into his coat pocket.

 

 She had a son in the south who farmed, and a daughter in editing, and a husband who'd passed away three years ago.  Her absolute riot of a best friend was her savior; they got in trouble the other day at the pharmacy for riding her motorized scooter too fast in the halls - at the age of eighty four.  When it was her stop, she hiked her alarmingly large handbag over her shoulder, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and lumbered cheerfully down the steps.

 

Arthur didn't reclaim his seat, opting to stand for a while longer, holding the overhead strap and swaying with the rhythm of the bus.

 

* * *

 

He disembarked shortly after and walked the remaining few blocks to his destination - the _Marche d'Aligre_.  One of the oldest open-air markets in Paris, it boasted farm-fresh produce and cuts of meat, as well as artisan cheese, charcuterie, and wine.  It was also home to a flea market on the outdoor ground floor, which was Arthur's intended port of call.  He tactfully bypassed the cheerful vendors hawking their wares and emerged once more into the crisp morning air. 

 

Outside, people nosed down rows of trestle tables, prodding through boxes of consignments.  Recalling Francis' eclectic flair for home goods, the Englishman headed for a row labeled cutlery.  He poked through the boxes with no clear aim, waiting for inspiration to come to him.  After a close encounter with the sharp end of an oak-handled steak knife, Arthur though better of using his hands and opted to root through with a long-handled ice cream spoon.

 

Halfway down the row, a triplet of caviar spoons caught his eye.  Bound together with jute, their provenance tag indicated they were made of elk antler around the turn of the last century.  Arthur reasoned that while Francis was likely to have full sets of silver and china - crystal was a foregone conclusion - there was always a need for small oddments, and he found the English ivy-leaf engravings on the handle to be particularly compelling.

 

Nothing else jumped out at him, so he made his purchase - a modest fifteen euros - and reentered the market in search of food.  Less-than-interested in an intensive lunch, he purchased a ham ficelle in waxed wrapping.  The smiling bakery assistant tossed him an orange with a wink and an insouciant _c'est cadeau_ , throwing Arthur on the back foot, who dropped far more change than called for into the tip jar in his haste to escape.  He pocketed the orange, though.

 

* * *

 

Business concluded, Arthur caught the 20 back of up the _Boulevard Beaumarchais_ for a ride less interesting than the first.  He ate his lunch while standing.  The ficelle was excellent, the bread fresh and the ham paper-thin, unencumbered by condiments save a light spread of butter.  The orange was retrieved from his pocket and peeled, and Arthur was pleased to note that the flavor was comparable in quality with the rest of his repast.  The peel followed the waxed paper into the bus wastepaper basket as he disembarked at the _Rue de Louvre_.

 

Arthur surmised one could never run amiss of Francis with cookware, and thus had planned to stop by the Dehillerin; it was one of the largest professional suppliers in Paris, and carried high-end stock.

 

Arthur hit a stopping block in the Dehillerin knife aisle.  The caviar spoons were small, easily passed off as a joke at the expense of Francis' beau monde carriage; the desire to give a more meaningful gift was held up by one small uncertainty: what does one buy for a man who used to rule the world?

 

Staving off a helpful clerk with a wave and a mock-inspection of a tomato knife (who needed a knife just for tomatoes?), he quietly panicked. If he bought too little or too carelessly, he would appear lazy. Arthur would be the first to admit that the finer nuances of cookware were not his forte.  Now he regretted waving away the clerk.

 

On the other hand, buying too much landed him in strange waters. Giving the man a gift grander than one he received seemed a tad obsequious.  For all the talk of breakfasts, Arthur was neither family nor husband. Indeed, this was the friendliest they'd been in a thousand years, save a memory-blurry romp in 1943; finding themselves on shore leave in Marseilles at the same time, their logical response to six months in the trenches had been to get soused in Francis' billet and stage an exultant wrestling match fueled by desperation and confiscated Schwarzwald whiskey.

 

A considerable amount of digging led Arthur to a Maestro 18cm santoku knife.  A bachelor in the habit of washing up as he went, Francis had a limited set of blades, which became a problem only when there were two people in the kitchen; a second long blade could do no harm.  His only other item of interest sent him to the pots and pans aisle.  Copper jam pot selected, Arthur made his way to the cashier, and then out into the midday air.

 

* * *

 

Arthur descended below the city at the Louvre station, and caught the line 1 toward _la defense_.  It was markedly less entertaining without Francis hanging on his arm, so he unwrapped the sweet bun he'd saved in his pocket.  The dough was fluffy and sweet, and he pulled off little bits at a time, savoring it in quiet contemplation. 

 

He disembarked at the Champs-Elyseeys - Clemenceau station, walking squintily into the light of day.  The Englishman then found a bus terminal and caught the 13 toward Chatillon Montrouge.  Arthur got off at the _Porte de Vanves_ and walked to the market on the _Avenue Marc Sangnier_.  _Les Puces de Vanves_ was a newer flea market, less flashy and frequented only by locals, expats, and the few travelers seasoned enough to take an unfamiliar road.  The market offered greater eclectic variety than Clignancourt and Aligre, which was Arthur's exact reason for going there.  He was hoping to find something unique enough to tickle the fancy of such a temporally calcified aristocrat as Francis.

 

Arthur was content to wander slowly, the dead leaves eddying across the pavers in his wake.  The snow of some days previous had melted, leaving the sky a mirror of the exposed grey cobble; it was not a day for hasty action, and even the shushing wind suggested repose. 

 

The furniture was of no interest to Arthur, and after some inspection, neither was the clothing - while there were certainly some interesting vintage pieces, he didn't know the extent of Francis' wardrobe, and could only eyeball the Frenchman's sizing.  Thus he ended up at a used-books stand in conversation with a wisp of a woman with fine grey hair and round glasses that gave her eyes an strigine cast.

 

_"Avez-vous des livres speciaux?"_

 

 _"Sont-ils pour vous? Ou pour quelqu'un d'autre?"_   Her eyes twinkled.

 

 _"Quelqu'un d'autre."_   Arthur shifted on his feet.

 

_"Une femme?"_

 

Arthur coughed.  _"Un homme.  Il aime lire; il a une grande bibliotheque."_

 

The owlish woman smiled, pulling him behind the booth to a cardboard box.  She gestured to a nearby milk crate.  Arthur raked it forward with a foot and sat.  The woman left him to browse through the box, which was full of books, some a century old, from the looks of their endpapers.

 

Most of them Arthur assumed Francis had already read - the English and French standbys of philosophy and politics - and the rest would make poor gifts - the volumes of titillating but wildly inappropriate classical poetry, the copy of E. M. Forster's Maurice that was gorgeous but the equivalent of a vociferously supplicative proposition.

 

After rooting for a while, Arthur dredged up a copy of 20000 Leagues Under the Sea, which, given that Verne was a Frenchman, Francis had surely read.  It was a hardback copy of embossed blue leather, well-loved, dogeared, and with papers of a different texture sticking out at frequent intervals.  Arthur thumbed through the pages, the binding creaking and shedding dust.  The _post hoc_ sheaves turned out to be dozens of detailed ink sketches - portraits of Nemo and Arronax; drawings of the Nautilus, the giant squid, the whirlpool; all labeled in blue script.

 

Already, Arthur was contemplating making the purchase on the merit of the art alone - he hadn't seen a copy on Francis' shelves - but some flight of fancy drove him to check the inner cover for provenance.  At the top were some phrases in French; time and water had blotched the black ink in places, but the remainder read _"lâche ta colère; ne regrette pas rien - Durand."_   And then, below, in that familiar blue pen, _Mallory_ \- an English surname, the given name washed away by water - and dated 1916.

 

 _"Oh, that old thing…"_   the vendor mused, appearing behind him.  _"I've had that for years and years.  Elderly gentleman sold it to me, along with his whole library; this one, he seemed very sad to relinquish.  Said he had given it as a gift, and, through bitter fate, to him it had returned."_

 

Arthur blinked and his breath froze.  There was only one reason for an Englishman's book to molder in a Parisian fleamarket when it was dated from 1916.

 

As if the whole day had caught up to him, he felt weary and stale; Arthur hazarded a guess that his cast was as grey as the sky.  His fingers twitched, itching to strike a match, light a cigarette; he settled for picking at the hem of his coat.

 

The vendor smiled softly.  "I would normally sell this for forty euros; for you, I will take ten."

 

Arthur protested weakly, but the woman gave a sweet smile and he found the book drawn from his grasp.  He was still protesting as the woman wrapped it in brown paper.  In the end, she refused all payment, simply pressing the volume into his hands with a murmured _"L'espoir est une chose à plumes; peut-il te trouve avec des ailes douces."_   All he could do was whisper his thanks and slip away down the street.

 

The metro home was crowded with midday commuters, but the ride passed for Arthur as if their noises were shielded from him by gossamer webbing, much quieter than the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears.

 

* * *

 

A cursory greeting shouted as Arthur stepped through the front door revealed Francis was not yet home.  With time to kill, a perusal of the spare bedroom yielded a tube of tasteful silver parchment, with which Arthur made quick work of  the wrapping.  The boxes in question were tied up with white ribbon and stashed behind the settee.

 

With paper filched from the desk, he set about penning a copy of his mother's lemon curd recipe, which he tucked beneath one of the box's bows.

 

The squeaky front door heralded Francis' return, and noises of shuffling, jingling keys, and muffled cursing floated up to Arthur.

 

Arthur, remembering Francis' request that he accompany him to the market, descended the stairs; he was greeted with an image of Francis, hair askew and holding a frankly obscene number of bags, trying to stuff himself through the annex door.

 

"Look away, Arthur!" he shouted, and Arthur, laughing, obliged.  At last he popped through and kicked the door shut, and all Arthur could hear was rustling, and more swearing. 

 

When Francis emerged, he looked a great deal more composed, and he'd straightened his hair.  He stopped in the foyer and looked up at Arthur, who had stopped on the last landing to watch the spectacle; the crease in his forehead said he was trying to gauge the meaning of Arthur's laughter

 

All Arthur could do was smile and say "Christ, man, how did you fit all that onto the tube? You looked like an English washerwoman!"

 

Francis smiled in return and held out his hand, and Arthur descended the stairs, and the two of them went out to the market.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> caviar spoons cannot be made of silver to preserve taste - hence the antler. Craftsmanship of them therefore has historically been very niche/artisan. I disagree with caviar on environmental principle, but you could use them to serve jam/tapenade.
> 
> A ficelle is a type of mini baguette frequently used for sandwiches.
> 
> Yes there are small serrated knives just for cutting tomatoes; it's ridiculous. My father owns one - that tells you all you need to know about his character. Keep your paring knives sharp like the rest of us, you cowards!
> 
> Santoku knives are Japanese 3-purpose blades for slicing, dicing, and mincing. I prefer them for their flat blades - western chefs knives have a curved blade & pointy tip.
> 
> His mother is Hwicce - the anglo-saxon kingdom that superseded the native Briton population - headcanon this is where he gets the yellow hair  
> \- We're going to pretend that Arthur got the lemon curd recipe from his mother even though most recipe records date its origin to the 19th century because honey can technically be used as a cane sugar substitute and Hwicce would have traded with the Mediterranean for citrus.
> 
> I'm not terribly familiar with 20kLUTS but it deals a lot with revenge and homeland/belonging so I figured… why not? 
> 
> The french name (Durand) means "enduring"  
> English name (Mallory) means "unfortunate/unlucky"  
> \- (I was thinking of naming him Barnett, which means "place cleared by burning" but it seemed a little to tragically-on-the-nose)
> 
> In translating this by hand, I have exhausted my minimal knowledge of French grammar. I'm fluent in Spanish, not French.
> 
> ' C'est cadeau ' = ' it's a gift ' --> translates to ' it's on the house. '
> 
> 'Avez-vous des livres speciaux?' / 'Sont-ils pour vous? Ou pour quelqu'un d'autre?' / 'Quelqu'un d'autre.' / 'Une femme?' / 'Un homme. Il aime lire; il a une grande bibliotheque' / = 'Do you have any special books?' / 'Are they for you? Or for someone else?' / 'Someone else.' / 'A woman?' / 'A man. He loves to read; he has a large collection.'
> 
> 'lâche ta colere; ne regrette pas rien.' = 'let go of your anger; regret nothing.'
> 
> "L'espoir est une chose a plumes; peut-il te trouve avec des ailes douces." = 'hope is a feathered thing; may it find you with gentle wings.' (reference to Emily Dickinson in first clause)
> 
> ...
> 
> So, a reader left an anonymous comment over on FF.N asking what the deal with the book was, and I realized I may have been too subtle.
> 
> Basically, the book belonged to an English soldier who was stationed in France during the first world war - he's the one with his name in blue ink on the inside cover, and who has been doing all the drawings.
> 
> It was given to him by a Frenchman, who put the inscription 'let go of your anger; regret nothing.' in the inside cover.
> 
> So, how does an Englishman's book end up back in the possession of the Frenchman that gave it to him? He was killed in action (hence the 1916 date; he dies shorty afterward) and his personal affects were collected by the Frenchman, who holds onto the book for decades until he decides to let him go. I was definitely going for a romantic subtone, considering the inscription and how the book vendor describes their interaction.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also over on Fanfiction.net under the username BarefootDancer. I'm posting this fic there too. I have the first five or so chapters written already so you can expect consistent updates.


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